


the wind beneath my wings

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Airports, Comfort Reading, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Future Fic, Homecoming, M/M, Reunions, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you check any baggage?" Derek says. "Or is this it?"</p><p>"You’re—" Stiles squints. "Me?"</p><p>"Yes," Derek says, not very patiently. </p><p>Good old Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wind beneath my wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskey_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_in_tea/gifts).



> originally posted [on tumblr](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com/post/79107419969/fluffy-reunion-fic-for-scout). 
> 
> written for Scout, titled by Ashe, premise suggested by Mijra. <3

Stiles has been on a plane for hours. He doesn’t even remember how many, he lost track between time changes and flight transfers, one in Las Vegas, another in Chicago. Fucking Las Vegas, it’s the worst. This is what he gets for deciding to go home for Thanksgiving last-minute: Dad and Scott and Melissa on one end, airport hell and cramming for finals on the other. By the time his last flight touches down at La Guardia, Stiles feels like he’s been in transit forever, like there’s going to be five new iPhone models out by the time he gets to the curb to catch the M60 bus into the city.

Stiles doesn’t make it to the curb, though, because Derek Hale is waiting for him at the baggage claim.

—

Derek moved back to Brooklyn after Scott was settled as the alpha in Beacon Hills, a few months before Stiles started at NYU. From the vantage point of Beacon Hills, where driving the length of Manhattan took 20 minutes at the speed limit and still kept you well within Beacon County jurisdiction, it seemed like they’d be neighbors. In actuality, Stiles barely goes above 14th Street or below Houston most weeks, let alone into another borough. One time he ran into Derek at the Union Square farmer’s market, literally; there were a few seconds where Derek juggled his tub of goat’s milk yogurt and Stiles squashed his focaccia against his hoodie before they got themselves under control. Another time he saw Derek on the subway, or thought he did; it was the L, late at night, and Stiles had to get off at 2nd Ave while the guy who might have been Derek continued on.

"Did you check any baggage?" Derek says now. "Or is this it?"

"You’re—" Stiles squints. "Me?"

"Yes," Derek says, not very patiently.

Good old Derek. Stiles wants to pat him on the back or the cheek or something, but that might be the exhaustion setting in.

—

"There’s not an emergency, and no one has died," Derek says. "I can’t just come pick you up from the airport?"

“ _You_  don’t just  _anything_ ,” Stiles says. “You don’t just go to Gristedes. You don’t just buy hot dogs. Like you don’t just walk into  _Mordor_.”

Derek doesn’t respond, probably because he’s aggressively merging into traffic on the highway. They’re heading south from the airport, not west towards the city, but Stiles is too tired to do anything but relax into the padded bucket seat of the Camaro and stare out the window at the Manhattan skyline glittering against the night. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check it—he texted Dad and Scott when he landed, but he hasn’t looked at it since—and there’s a lone emoticon from Scott, a predictable grin,  _:D_

Stiles clears his throat. “Scott put you up to this.”

"He said that you seemed worn out," Derek allows. "He’s concerned about you."

"I’m writing my senior thesis," Stiles says. "Of course, I—" His throat closes up around the words. He hates when they worry about him, after everything; it’s helped being away all these years, not having to look Dad in the face over breakfast every day, feel Scott’s somber, watchful eyes on him in class. He loves them, it just takes so much effort to look—to be well.

"I’m supposed to make sure you eat dinner and sleep," Derek says. "There's a banh mi place down the street, and Thai that delivers. Unless you want to go back to your dorm." They’re coming up on an exit; Derek’s fingers hesitate on the turn signal.

The leather headrest is smooth against Stiles’s stubbled cheek, slow to warm at his touch. He shifts his body so he’s angled toward Derek, closes his eyes, mumbles, “Thai sounds good.”

—

When Stiles wakes again, Derek’s hauling him up the stairs, slung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Jesus, don’t you have neighbors?” Stiles says. He blinks, groans, squirms; the overhead light is painfully bright, almost blinding. All he has is the sense of movement to guide him, Derek’s careful steps one after another.

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles. “Do you want me to drop you?”

"If you wanted me to come over this badly, you could have asked," Stiles says. "You’re terrible at kidnapping."

"I’m not kidnapping you," Derek says.

Stiles lets Derek carry him the whole way in and set him down on the couch, dropping Stiles’s duffle—ah, that was the thing that kept whacking against his knee—on the floor beside him. It’s such a ridiculous show of werewolf strength and unnecessarily gallantry that Stiles has to repress the urge to fake a swoon. He’s still so tired that this whole thing feels like a dream: his flights, his arrival, and Derek’s casual, comfortable movement around his apartment, cluttered with furniture and the debris of city life: a heavy wool peacoat draped over a chair, a battered two-dollar umbrella, a sleek bicycle with a bell. “Why do you even own a car?” Stiles says as he dangles his legs over the side of the couch, toeing off his sneakers to listen to their satisfying thuds on the floor.

Derek swats at Stiles's feet until Stiles pulls them back, knee-to-chest, and turns to face the cushions. “I drive for work. It comes out about even.”

"I don’t remember what you do for work," Stiles says to a throw pillow. It matches the couch, otherwise he’d wonder why Derek owns a throw pillow. Now he just wants to know why Derek owns a couch that comes with them. The pillow and couch are both covered in heavy flocked brocade that smells like it’s older than Dad. "Sorry."

Something brushes against Stiles’s hair. “I’m a courier. And you’re, what—a journalism major?”

"Psych. I changed last— " Stiles yawns. "Last year, yeah. Are you a drug mule?"

Derek sighs and turns on a light somewhere on the periphery; some paper rustles. “I ordered you basil beef,” he says. “Extra spicy.”

—

The basil beef is so hot it makes Stiles’s eyes water. He drinks two glasses of water and another glass of milk before he’s finished; he didn’t realize he was so hungry. Derek eats his own spring rolls and pad thai sedately, watching Stiles like he’s putting on a particularly amusing show. He ducks his head when Stiles catches his eyes, cheeks flushing. “Sorry,” Derek says. “You’re just—I forgot how you are.”

"Graceful?" Stiles prompts. "Refined? Dignified?" His whole mouth feels numb and swollen; he swipes at it with the back of his hand.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Decorous.”

"Baby, are you a thesaurus, because you—" Stiles begins, but then Derek puts his hand on Stiles's and Stiles can’t do anything but stare at it, fixed under Derek’s tentative grasp like a deer beneath a semi. He’s jittery with sriracha adrenaline and bone-deep tired beneath that, and somewhere between those two poles desire pools in his gut, low and steady. He takes a deep breath. "Scott didn’t tell you to, um."

When Derek starts to pull back, Stiles leans forward and grabs Derek’s hand so it’s pressed between both of his own in a little awkward-turtle sandwich. Derek shakes his head, doesn’t meet Stiles’s eyes. “No, I—sorry.”

"I’m not," Stiles says. "Come on. Feel up my hand a little more."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] the wind beneath my wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12474452) by [cantarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantarina/pseuds/cantarina), [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater), [paraka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraka/pseuds/paraka), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




End file.
